A Tone Poem
by Oswulf
Summary: A very brief discusstion of music and philosophy.


Jean-Luc reclined on his office sofa, pad in hand. In all honesty, he preferred books. There was an undeniable—allure—of the book. A kinetic validation, even a subtly pleasant scent of the page. The complete experience was the book experience, nevertheless you worked with what you could acquire and Malcolm Gladwell's "Outliers" had caught his interest, so reading the pad it was.

At the door's bleep, he said "Come," years of experience keeping any trace of annoyance at the interruption out of his voice. Data stepped purposefully into the room then tilted his head slightly as he took in his surroundings—a normal mannerism for him to be sure and one Picard had always avoided saying but occasionally thought was vaguely reminiscent of a curious dog.

"You have redecorated," Data observed. "Is there an occasion?"

"Spice of life, Data," he answered smoothly. "You're delivering the Inklor report?"

Data refocused to full business mode immediately. "Gravitation, temperature and weather patterns within acceptable parameters. Hydrogen levels at one hundred three point seven five two one…" he trailed off in response to the glance. "percent of allowable levels, however that can be compensated for. Atmospheric conditions otherwise tolerable. Serviceable varieties of animal and plant life. In short, there is significant potential for long-term prosperity. A strong candidate."

Picard nodded. "Very well. Submit a positive report to Starfleet with warnings about hydrogen levels. Data," he added as the android turned to go.

"Captain?"

"I've been reading—well really it's about the significant role happenstance plays in achievement. How consequently huge numbers of for example late twentieth, early twenty-first century Canadian hockey players were born early in the year…"

Data's brow furrowed and his lips moved minutely as he accessed the information. "Fully forty percent were born between January and March, an additional thirty percent between April and June and a mere ten percent after September at every level. Odd."

"Yes," Picard agreed. But what occurred to me was the assertion that a true virtuoso violinist, or in virtually any field, doesn't truly shine until they have logged about ten thousand hours of practice."

"That is a recurring observation," Data agreed.

"I was wondering about you—I've seen your mastery of a number of musical instruments and I know you couldn't have spent that much time with all of them."

Data paused, making his way over to more closely examine a painting that newly adorned the wall before replying. "I am not a virtuoso. I have the capability to make elaborate calculations and perform fine movements beyond the realm of human possibility, but a virtuoso requires a creative flair which I do not even know if I am capable of, even with the emotion chip."

"But your playing is flawless."

"Greatness is not the same as flawlessness."

"At any rate," Picard allowed, "I suppose your ability to play at speed and multi-task grant you the equivalent of ten thousand hours in a fraction of the time."

Head-tilt. "I do not think so."

A curious nod from Picard bid Data to continue.

"First, the multi-tasking," began Data. "It allows me to consider and deduce multiple factors simultaneously but the playing of instruments is a physical as much as an intellectual enterprise and clearly I can not simultaneously rehearse with violin, guitar and piano." Data raised his hands, presumably to indicate that he had only two.

"But the speed with which I've sometimes seen you operate…"

"It has its uses, but there are some circumstances that change. Instruments have design parameters and don't behave properly when those parameters are exceeded. Additionally—I eventually found that skill is much more than motions. The rhythm and tempo, the very experience is somehow compromised at greater-than-human speeds. It doesn't just sound wrong, it teaches the wrong lessons, it…" Data paused, his eyes darting from point to point, searching for a better word until he finally settled for his initial choice "…feels wrong. There are lessons only time and experience can teach. Perhaps that one was one of them."

They both stood quietly for a minute, considering.

"Perhaps," Picard said at last, "your lifespan will allow you greater opportunity to put in those ten thousand hours."

"Or perhaps," Data answered, "my artificial neurons are incapable of true virtuoso greatness."

Picard smiled and patted his shoulder. "I shouldn't worry. In any case, the word 'amateur' comes from the Latin root referring to doing the thing for the love of the thing. The enjoyment is far more important than any poorly defined meaning of 'greatness'."

"Indeed," replied Data, and Picard could have sworn his junior officer had glanced briefly at the flute on his desk. "Thank you sir." And with that he set off to make the report on Inktor.

With a sigh, Picard picked up the pad and resumed reading. "Bill Gates was born on October 28, 1955, the perfect birth date…"


End file.
